The Library
by Oirams
Summary: A romp in time about a Riddle in waiting. It's a theory.


The Library  
  
It was a dark and stormy night. Not a creature was stirring, not even the Mouse.  
  
The Mouse was sleeping peacefully in the corner, and the boy near him did not have the heart to wake the critter up. The little whiskers were curved upwards-apparently, he was dreaming of cheese again.   
  
I got to remember to get more gouda.  
  
The little boy gently smoothed a spotted crinkle on the Mouse's fur, and then went back to the book he was cradling.  
  
The Grimoire was small but in it, were so many nifty objects, spells, incantations (which the book said was different from spells, for some reason), rituals (he didn't understand those yet but they seemed very interesting), and...contracts (that chapter had been too scary to read at night).  
  
"Chapter Three: Ancient, Dark, and Wand Based Magic," the dark-haired boy read aloud. His green eyes sparkled with childish glee. Dark Magic! The grown ups had always warned him in various lengths and degrees about the dangers of dallying in these forces but whenever pressed for explanation, they would just shake their hands and raise their voices without fully satisfying the question. He half-suspected that these 'grown-ups' didn't know much about it themselves.   
  
So what was Dark Magic really about?  
  
"Dark Magic is any magic that deals with the Four Mysteries," recited the Boy faithfully. It had been in the preceding chapter, 'The Development of the Wand.'   
  
  
  
The Four Mysteries, the boy had already learned, were so called because they represented the raw forces that constituted magical energy in all its various forms.   
  
Maybe, when I'm all growed up, I'll figure them out. Maybe even link them together like no one has done before.  
  
The little boy daydreamed about such a happening, and a broad smile played on his cherubic face. Mom would be so proud!  
  
  
  
Just then, one of the several Charms he laid outside the door pulsed their warning, 'Two adults approaching, Tommy! Hide!" These charms could have been built using simpler magic, but the boy had been mischievous. He had wanted to test out some of the new spells and methods he had learned in the Library. The charms were founded on the second of the Mysteries, the Intelligence Force, and, as a result, a few of these charms had even become self-aware. The boy did not know anything about this 'life stuff'; after all, he had only read up to the third chapter!   
  
The boy dashed away, climbing up a shelf, and rushed quietly into one of the three air vents that provided aeration for the enormous room. He placed his feet in first, and then squeezed his chest in. Luckily, by the time the two intruders came in, Tommy had already closed the hatch, and was sipping quietly on a warm but still enjoyable butterbeer.   
  
"I swear...I wasn't imagining things, Al. I did hear some sounds. You know how good my hearing is." said Professor Filch, his mean eyes narrowing.  
  
"You're way too suspicious," replied Moody gaily. "It's just the very nature of this place that's got you so spooked. After all, this place is filled to the brim with Dark Arts. Not someplace I'd want to be at night, to be sure."  
  
Filch only snorted, unconvinced.  
  
"Fine," he said with disgust. " Let's hurry up then. I need to reread Flamel's Sixth Experiment. I'm not getting the right results. It's driving me insane!"  
  
"Are you using those Burmese cauldrons again? You're such a cheapskate," Moody smirked as he searched the index under for the phrase 'First Mystery Experiments.'  
  
"No," replied an annoyed Filch, snatching the incant log from Moody's offering hand. "For your information, I just bought a top-of-the-line Snape. My cauldron's perfect as perfect can be."  
  
"Snape? I heard that the cauldron maker's going under," said Moody as he sat down beside his colleague on one of the magically appearing chairs. "I gave one of their 'basic' cauldrons to my son for his birthday and he couldn't even get the right temperature going on it-shoddy design, seems to me."  
  
"Shoddy? My cauldron's the best! Although, I can understand how your son might find it difficult. Even the basic model has the trademark Snape complexity built into it. It's really not for beginners. Still, for complicated stuff, it's unrivaled." Filch's eyes scrambled between his own notes and Flamel's for a diverging entry.  
  
"Eureka!" Filch had placed too much oregano on the hundred and sixty-fifth step.  
  
"What?" asked Moody with mocked curiousness. True, he was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor but he shared none of Filch's fanaticism-but then Filch had been a Slytherin, and they were all a mite nutters about the Four Mysteries.   
  
"Oh, like you really care," Filch scoffed, rising up from his chair. "I don't get why Dumbledore gave you the Dark Arts post in the first place. You majored in Arithmancy, for Merlin's sake. You barely even come to this room! Now if I were the Dark Arts professor..."  
  
Moody laughed warmly.  
  
"That's exactly why Albus didn't hand the post to you-Or to those like you. The Dark Arts isn't something to be trifled with. Unfortunately, not many realize that. The Headmaster shares and knows my views on the subject. He'll know that I won't let just anyone access this library. Speaking of which,"-Moody's expression grew dreadfully serious-"You still haven't returned Flamel's log."  
  
"Oh, yes," said Filch sheepishly. "Must have slipped my mind. Here it is."  
  
He returned the small hardback to Moody's hand, and then made for the door.  
  
"Ahem," coughed Moody. "I said, Flamel's log, not your own."  
  
Filch stopped just outside the door, and chuckled, "Just testing you, old chap."   
  
He returned the true text with many such mirthful grunts but with a reluctance that showed that he would have much preferred to have succeeded in hocking the recipe log.  
  
Moody shook his head disapprovingly. Every single time. Dumbledore was right. You DO have to be constantly vigilant.  
  
After the two professors left, the Boy in the Vent immediately climbed out. He was growing but the vent was not. In another few months, he would outgrow the hiding place, and finding another one in this simply furnished library was easier said than done.  
  
Still, that was a long ways off. Tommy, that was his name, called forth a chair and resumed the chapter he had been reading.  
  
His green eyes glinted in the darkness-his mother had told him that it was a genetic thing, his eyes, but Tommy didn't know what 'genetic' meant. He only knew that he could read in the dark. And speak to snakes. And do a lot of things faster than most wizards four times his age.   
  
And sometimes, in his sleep, he would dream up things. Of a distant battle with ogres, orcs, oliphaunts, elves, wizards, and then wake up sweating-not from fear, but from battle shock.  
  
He wondered what it all meant. He pondered it for a bit and then forgot it, utilizing that famous children's faculty of disconcentration. Tommy, instead, turned his attention back unto his furry friend. The Mouse had woken up, and was looking at him with hungry eyes.  
  
"Oh no, Mr. Mouse. I've been spoiling you too much already. Look at you, you're the fattest mouse I've ever seen!" Tommy said, poking at the Mouse's chubbiness. The Mouse was ticklish, it seemed. "You like that, don't you?"   
  
The play continued on for some time until even the Mouse became tired of it. Tommy, however, was tireless. He picked up the Grimoire again, flipped past to the end, and started reading a bookmarked page.   
  
"Chapter Thirteen: Contracts, Selling Your Soul In A Buyer's Market," he read silently. There was something very captivating about this chapter. Tommy didn't understand what Soul meant (other than the fact that it was the very first of the Four Mysteries), but it sounded sinister. That was okay. Tommy liked stuff that was scary. His favorite movies were scary. He would have to hide behind his mother during the really scary parts but, to him, that just made the movie more enjoyable.  
  
Mom. I bet she's lonely.  
  
Tommy started to cry. In truth, he was the one that was lonely. Hogwarts was a huge place and he had few friends. The Malfoys and the Blacks-the pureblood folk-were always making fun of him. It was hard to make friends under such relentless persecution. Still, Tommy didn't mind. He had his Mouse-  
  
"Hey, Mousy! That's my snack."   
  
He shooed him away but the Mouse paid him no heed. It was hungry, and Tommy's jamon sandwich smelled too wonderful to give up.  
  
"Ow!" The Mouse had bit him! Tommy grew very angry. How ungrateful. You're supposed to be my friend! You're just like the rest of them.   
  
For an instant, his mind had an imagining of himself stomping the Mouse into bloody oblivion. He nearly guffawed from the sickening thought.   
  
He was just a dumb animal, after all. It wasn't his fault. Tommy smiled magnanimously, and pardoned the animal for his crime. He sucked on his bleeding finger, and was delighted to see that it had already healed. Flamel's Sixth Experiment works!   
  
Delighted, Tommy decided to return back to the Slytherin dorms. Tomorrow was Double Potions! He didn't want to oversleep. The Gryffindors were asinine blokes, but the Ravenclaws were always friendly. Potions classes with them were very fun.   
  
They had even given him a nickname. It was a very hip one, too. Nanci Delacour had said that it was in French, and that it meant 'Daredevil' or 'Flier in the Face of Death.' Tommy was always inventing some potion or spell whose effects not only included loud explosions, but also sent him flying sixteen feet into the air. Of course, every once in a while, Tommy would create something extraordinary, so Professor Filch allowed him more leeway. But to mitigate the risk to his life, there were usually several medics available around his Potions class, prompting the Ravenclaws to give him the affectionate nickname of 'Daredevil.'   
  
Tommy forgot exactly how the French nickname was written. Volleypot? Voe-dee-mop?  
  
He skipped merrily along.  
  
No matters. He would ask Nanci tomorrow.   
  
THE END 


End file.
